


A Song of Bulls and Rage

by TheVagabondBoy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Duelling, Knights - Freeform, M/M, More characters to come, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Royalty, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, Swords, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Warnings May Change, and edgar III isnt a chicken, because im an indecisive fuck, but still.., edgar isnt a cow in this one guys, title may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-09 23:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11679477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVagabondBoy/pseuds/TheVagabondBoy
Summary: Michael left Achievement City as a starving orphan with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He didn't really know where he was going then, and neither does he now.Starving as he is, he tries to take what he needs. But when he tries to steal food from the wrong person, what happens?





	1. Chapter 1

The heat was sweltering. The sweat was dripping from Michael’s hair into his eyes. He had to wipe his face on his dirt brown tunic every minute, or so, to keep from drowning in his own sweat. His feet were sore, and he wished the numbness of a few hour ago would return. The pebbles of the road were sharp and rough, but he couldn’t walk in the ditches on either its side. If he did, he might miss anyone coming by; perhaps a gentle farmer would stroll by, with horse and cart, and give him a lift to the next town. Or a kindly old Lord would let him ride one of the mules in the far back of their caravan, with the servants and cooks and stable boys and so on and so forth.

Thankfully, the sun was hanging low and heavy in the sky. It wouldn’t be long before it dropped under the horizon. Michael hoped the night was cool, but not  _ too _ cool. He was pretty far north. If it got too cold, he might freeze to death. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, and the two copper pieces he had found in the mud as he walked the road. Maybe they would be enough to buy him a decent pair of boots, whenever he happened upon a town. Or a night at an inn and a warm dinner, and maybe even a mug of ale or wine! He would have to think about it; consider the priorities.

What was more important: that he be able to keep walking, or a measly one night of comfort? Perhaps he could have both? If he bought himself the boots, and convinced some kind soul in the town to give him work for a few days. He would work hard, and not ask for much in return; a strip of meat and a piece of bread every day, some water from the well but he could get that on his own, and a bed, which he’d gladly make in a stable or on a floor or attic, wherever there was some shelter from the weather and the cold.

Really, that sort of trading of favors was the only reason he had gotten this far away from Achievement City. He wasn’t sure  _ why _ he had left in the first place. He’d never known his parents, who they were or if they were even alive or dead. He’d spent all his life in Fleabottom, raised by others like him and grown up to chase pigeons to crack the neck on and roast over a torch by one of the stairs to the higher circles of the city, and begging coppers out of the slightly more fortunate in the circle above the Fleas. One day, he had just up and asked a farmer, who had come to the city to sell his finest crops at the markets, if he could ride along to the farmer’s village. The man had hesitated, eyed Michael’s tall and lanky form up and down for a moment before deciding he seemed trustworthy enough. Michael rode out of the city in the cart, without so much as saying farewell to the few friends he had.

Michael stopped when he heard the thunder of hooves pounding the ground to his left. He looked around; he’d been lost in his mind, too occupied with his thoughts to consider where he was. He had come to a crossroads. The King’s Road ran from north to south, from Achievement City’s gates down to the Southern Door and up to the Northern Door, and it was crossed by the thin road Michael had been walking, which ran from east to west.

From the north, a horse was galloping. Even at a distance, it looked  _ enormous; _ a black as night draft, dark grays and pale whites in the feathering hanging over its hooves. As it came closer, Michael could make out the snow white mark on its face, right between its eyes. A dot, almost perfectly rounded. He could see the rider as well, and the second horse, which was tied off with a rope to the saddle on the first. The rider looked tall, sitting upon such a tall horse. He was clad in a long black cloak, with the hood drawn to cover his head and obscuring his face. His clothes were dark too; rough fabrics, it looked like. No silk or embroidery, but simply, brown britches and a wine red tunic. A longsword hung at the rider’s hip. The second horse was much smaller than the first, but a decently sized draft, in it’s own right. Pale brown, with white markings all over its body. It’s back was laden with the rider’s belongings.

Michael stretched his hand out, as if to wave. A wordless call for any coin the man could spare, or perhaps a ride on the second horse. But, the horses thundered past him and the rider didn’t spare him a glance. Not one that Michael could see at least, with that hood drawn so low.

It was to be expected. Any man with enough belongings to require a second horse to carry them, had no time for orphans from Fleabottom.

Michael watched him go. The cloak billowed in the wind, one of the horses whinnied. After some time, the company disappeared from view, into some woods the King’s Road passed through. Michael followed down the same road, towards the woods. Why? Again, he was unsure. Anyway, he wouldn’t have come upon a town until tomorrow, and he much rather slept under the trees than in a ditch by the road. At least under the trees, he’d have some cover if it rained.

*

It was already cold when Michael reached the forest. The sun had set some time ago, and the sweat from the day lay like ice on his skin. He shivered, and wrapped his arms around himself. His stomach groaned. He was hungry. The hunger wasn’t so bad, he’d last a few more days without a good meal. So long as he found water, he would be alright.

A horse nickered and whinnied, a second mirrored it back. A fire crackled too, he could see the faint light through the bushes.

The rider? From before, on the Road? He must have made camp for the night. He would have plenty of food; if not a freshly killed rabbit or pheasant, then at least some salted meat and stale bread.

No. Michael may be a street rat from Fleabottom, but he wasn’t a thief. If he just...if he just approached carefully and asked as nice as he could, maybe the rider would  _ give _ him food. He wouldn’t need much, or  _ ask _ for much! Just a strip or two of meat, some bread, a drink from the water skin. A moment to warm himself by the fire. Then he’d be gone. Wouldn’t bother the man again.

Michael was sure to make as much noise as he could as he shuffled through the bushes towards the camp. He wouldn’t want the rider to think he was trying to sneak up on him. But it was for naught, it seemed, since the rider lay by the fire bundled up in his cloak and a blanket, asleep. That was quite brave; going to sleep alone in the woods, where anyone could creep up and slit his throat.

It didn’t matter.

Michael wasn’t a thief, no, but his stomach groaned at him again and hunger made all men desperate. The man was asleep. He’d never know. Michael would only take what the rider could spare. With that horse, he’d reach a town quickly, and could easily refill his stocks there. He probably wouldn’t even notice anything had gone missing.

On nimble feet, Michael sidled around the clearing that the camp was in. He moved quietly past the sleeping man. A set of saddlebags lay by the his feet. Those had to contain some food, right? Michael crouched there, and opened one of the bags as silently as he could. He held his breath to keep from cheering in excitement. Half a loaf of bread, apples and plums, a whole bundle of dried meat and one of salted fish, and even some sort of cake-like little things that Michael didn’t know the name of. He pulled his tunic up, forming an improvised pouch. He tore off a piece of bread, took one apple and the two smallest plums he could find, a strip of meat, and a strip of fish. That would last him days! The rider would never know.

He got to his feet again, and hurried back in the direction he had come from.

There was a shuffle behind him. A strong hand grabbed hold of his hair. Michael would have screamed and kicked and bit and spat, but the blade that was quickly put against his throat made him think better of it.

*

Ryan had neither the mood nor the time to deal with this little rat. He had seen him on the Road and ignored him. Ryan had planned to rest for some hours, then get back on the Road before dawn. The tourney at the Hidden Tower was in two days time, and Ryan had farther to ride than he would have liked.

So when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the rat stumble out of the bushes, he had half a mind to get up to slit his throat and get it over and done with. By the looks of the boy, no one would miss him. And yet, Ryan found himself pretending to sleep. He was...curious, let’s say. What would the rat do? Try to make off with Ryan’s coin purse? Take one of the horses? Empty his food stores? Bash his skull in with a rock and take it all?

He couldn’t quite see properly, but he listened intently as the rat searched through the saddlebags. He hazarded a glance now and then, since the boy seemed occupied. A piece of bread, some of the meat, one or two fruits, then he closed the bag and got up again.

_ Curious. _

Ryan had assumed he would take all he could carry, and leave little behind. But, the boy seemed to take only what could be spared. Now he  _ had _ to know why!

As the boy hurried back to where he had emerged from, Ryan moved. In mere seconds, he had a firm grip on the boy’s coppery locks and a dagger to his throat. The boy froze. His breathing was quick and sharp. Hot breaths misted up the gleaming steel of the blade.

“Hello there.” Ryan said.

“Let me go!” the boy hissed, angry despite the threat to his life.

“I will do no such thing.” Ryan said with a smirk.

The boy scoffed. “So what’ll it be then? I get fucked in the ass, then killed for my trouble?” he huffed. “Get on with it then! I don’t have all night to waste on your sorry excuse for a cock.”

Feisty.

Ryan couldn’t help but smile. He leaned closer, until he could see the boy’s skin prickle where Ryan’s warm breath hit it.

“Maybe I will.” he said.

The boy tensed.

“Haven’t had a good fuck since I left the Northlands.” he added with ease.

_ “Fuck you.” _

He had to say, the boy had spirit. He moved the dagger away, but did not yet sheath it. Best to be prepared. The rat was light as a feather, all skin and bones, when Ryan threw him to the ground by the fire. He dropped what he was carrying into the dirt, catching himself with his hands. He rolled over on his back quickly. Ryan smirked to himself as he looked down at the youth. He couldn’t be more than twenty summers, if even that.

“I am many things,” Ryan said, gesturing quite dramatically to himself with his blade. ”-but I’m no rapist.”

He could see the boy relax minutely, relieved by this. He tensed again though, as he remembered that Ryan had said nothing about murder.

“What then?” he spat, dirt streaking his face. “You’ll kill me and ride off into the night?”

Ryan hummed, toying with the knife.

“I’m considering it. But,” he said as he took a seat on his makeshift bed. ”-that’d make me quite a terrible Ser, wouldn’t it? The duty of a Ser is to protect the weak,” he continued, with a short glance at the boy. ”-not to slaughter them.”

The boy’s eyes were wide. He stared at Ryan.

“You’re...you’re a Ser?” he asked.

The man nodded. With his dagger, he speared the apple the boy had tried to steal. He shined it on the hem of his cloak then bit into it, careful to eat around the blade.

“Hedge knight. Ser Ryan the Bull, they call me.” he said, once he had swallowed his mouthful. “And you? What’s your name, boy?”

The rat swallowed slowly for a moment, seemingly considering his options.

“M-Michael.” he stuttered finally.

“Well, M-Michael,” Ryan mocked. ”-you can stay for the night. But on the morrow, we part ways and you don’t  _ ever _ try to steal from me again.”

One sharp look at the boy, had him nodding frantically. Ryan grabbed the blanket he himself had been wrapped in not minutes ago. He tossed it at the boy.

“Sleep.” he ordered. “I’ll take first watch. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

“C-Can I...eat?” Michael asked meekly, though sounded more surprised than afraid, as he fumbled his way out from under the big blanket.

Ryan pulled the apple off his dagger, and lobbed the fruit at his guest. Michael scrambled to catch it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah.............this happened
> 
> not sure if im gonna make Michael a cis boy or a trans boy, because both hold very special places in my heart but idk which would fit better with the story. I guess we'll fuckin find out together, yall  
> And i seriously need TO STOP starting and posting new fics when i have, like, five ongoing
> 
> (Also, if youre not super in on the GoT universe:  
> A hedge knight is, like the name suggest, a knight and a Ser, but isnt sworn to a House or a service, or anything. Theyre basically sellswords with titles, who travel around and swear their sword wherever there is payment. In GoT (the books, at least) a lot of them turn bandits and robbers, because there isnt enough good work, so most people dont like or trust them very much.  
> That is all!)  
> <3


	2. Chapter 2

It was just before dawn, when Ser Ryan woke up. He sat up sluggishly, stretching his arms over his head and yawning away the sleep. He had only gotten a handful of hours; for whatever reason, his bleeding heart pushed his limits to let the boy sleep. Nevertheless, Ryan felt rested enough to continue his ride.

Michael stood over by the horses when Ryan sat up. He pet Edgar over the flank and ran his hands through the thick black mane. Edgar III nickered, shoving the boy with her muzzle to get his attention as well. The boy giggled, then stroked her mule too.

Ryan sauntered over. Edgar whinnied, happily, when he approached, and Ryan smiled.

“Good morrow, my boy.” Ryan said, taking the horses head in his hand and pressing their foreheads together.

Again, Edgar III made a jealous noise and Ryan moved to headbutt her softly as well.

“Good morrow to you too, my Lady.” he said with a smile. “How do you do, on this fine day? Well, I pray the Gods.”

The horse made several noises in response, treading the ground.

“Glad to hear it, my Lady.” he said.

“What are their names?” Michael asked, standing just beside Ryan.

“This is Edgar.” the Ser said, petting the neck of the tallest draft. “And this little lady is Edgar III.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and had to chuckle at the confused look on the boy’s face.

“I am not very good at counting, Ser, but isn’t two before three?” he asked. “Should she not then be Edgar II? But even that is a strange name for a female, don’t you think?”

Ryan shrugged, moving away from the horses to pack his camp up.

“There  _ was _ an Edgar II, but he grew ill, while we were sailing from the Northlands. It was a kindness to put him out of his misery. As for the name itself...one shouldn’t name one’s horse. Turns them into good friends instead of what they are. I have found that giving them all the same name softens the blow. An Edgar can be replaced. A good friend cannot.”

The boy was silent behind him.

“Do you need a squire?”

*

Michael couldn’t say why he thought it was a good idea to ask. The Ser didn’t seem too fond of him, but he  _ was _ a Ser and he  _ was _ riding alone. It wasn’t many a Ser,  _ to Michael’s admittedly limited knowledge, _ that went without squire of their own will.

Furthermore, Michael was of the opinion that he would make an  _ excellent _ squire! He knew all the letters and could read them passably well, and he was a little out of practice with his numbers but he could add and divide and subtract, and all that, quite well.  _ And _ he had apprenticed at a forge in Achievement City! Yes, only for a few weeks before he got bored of it, but he still remembered how to sharpen a sword and clean a chain mail and polish and repair dents in the metal. And if he could learn how to ride and joust and fight with a sword, then maybe  _ he _ could be a Ser one day! Or, at least he could join the King’s Army, and have steady pay, rations three times per day, and barracks to sleep in.

But before that, he had to get to a town, a keep, or a city. Talking the Ser into letting Michael come along on the horses would be, by far, the quickest way.

Ryan stared at him. No...not just staring, but  _ studying. _ Taking in every inch of Michael’s lanky awkwardness. He was too skinny for his height, or too tall for his weight, whichever you prefer, and there was hardly any meat on his bones. Dirt and soot and grime was ingrained in his skin; his feet were practically blackened from walking for so long, trudging through the underbrush and sloshing through the mud. His hair was long and curly, haphazardly cut with a pair of blunt sheep sheers by a nice woman a few villages ago. He didn’t look like much, and Michael knew that. But he was fast! And quite strong, despite the shape of him, and fox clever, he had been called.

“Have you ever squired before?” the Ser asked.

Michael shook his head.

“No, Ser. But-“

“Do you know what a squire does?” Ryan interrupted.

“I...they take care of the horses. And the armor and weapons, wash and polish it, and help the Ser put it on and take it off. A-And anything their Ser needs!” he attempted. “You’d teach me to fight, and all about honor and duty, and all that stuff!”

The Ser chuckled; a dry little laugh, as if Michael had told him a joke so terrible that it was funny solely because of the merits of its terribleness. Michael wanted too get angry and yell at him, and tell him to take this as seriously as Michael himself did.

But for once, he held his tongue. He wouldn’t garner any favor with the Ser by raising his voice at him, or by acting out like a petulant child. And the man  _ was _ a Ser. He could have killed Michael for even  _ attempting _ his thievery, but he had been reasonable about it, and let him off the hook. The least Michael could do in return for that, he supposed, was threat the man with some respect.

The Ser took his saddlebags, having finished packing them, and stood up. He was intimidating, to say the least. He was tall and broad-bodied, limbs heavy with muscle. His face was kind, though, which was a stark contrast. Round cheeks that blushed red at the remaining cold of the night, sharp blue eyes that reminded Michael of the waters outside the Docks in Achievement City. His long black hair was tied back in a tight braid, resting over his shoulder and reaching its dark limb down his chest. It didn’t match his sandy beard; he must have dyed his hair, then. He regarded Michael once more, as he crossed the clearing to sling the bags over Edgar.

Once he got the bags into proper place, he put his full attention on Michael, who had to admit he shrank in on himself slightly under the pressure of such a deep stare.

“I am going to a tourney at the Hidden Tower.” he said. “You can squire for me through-out the event. If I decide you are good enough, I will keep you on. If your efforts are less than satisfactory, I will pay you for your labor, and we will part ways. Does this sound agreeable?”

“Yes!” Michael said, without taking even a moment to think it over.

It was perfect, was it not? If he proved himself, he would be  _ an actual squire _ to a Ser. And even if he did not, he would be paid  _ and _ he would be in Hidden Tower, where he could no doubt easily find more work or a fare to wherever he pleased. The games at Hidden Tower were known far and wide; Lords and Ladies, Sers and squires, and even Kings and Queens at times, rode in from all over the continent to take part, or to even just spectate!

“Tell me what to do, Ser, and it will be done.” he insisted.

The man shook his head and breathed a soft sigh.

“Help me pack the rest, and load Edgar III.” he ordered, still. “Then put out the fire.”

“Yes, Ser.” Michael said dutifully.

He got to it quickly.

There wasn’t much to pack, since there hadn’t been much camp to speak of. But, he folded the blanket he had slept under with as much care as he had in him, then strapped it to the horse’s back. Most of the Ser’s things had simply been taken off her and set aside, to let her rest for the night. It took both the men, working together, some time to load her up again.

“Ser, may I ask,” Michael said as he was scooping dirt onto the remnants of the fire. ”-why d’you not let Edgar carry some of the weight?”

Ser Ryan answered, while undoing the ropes he had tied the horses off with.

“He’s not used to that type of work.” he explained. “Edgar, is a war horse. Trained to run headlong into battle without hesitation, and to not flinch away from the clang of steel. If he was laden with luggage instead of a rider, he would scarcely know what to do with himself.”

“And how are you meant to get in the saddle?” Michael questioned, coming to stand beside his new teacher. “He’s so tall, the stirrups are to my chest!”

A smirk filled the Ser’s lips.

“Watch.”

He stood before the black horse, and bowed to it.

“Down.” he said gently.

Michael watched, amazed, as the horse lowered itself. It went to its knee with its front legs and hung its head, returning the bow. There, Ryan could more easily set his foot into the stirrup and swing his leg over to find the other. He offered his hand to Michael. The boy swallowed down his hesitance, and took it in a firm grasp. He used the crooking of Ryan’s foot as a stirrup of his own, to step up in and climbing up to sit behind the man. Ryan himself helped, though. He pulled the boy up with ease. Michael wrapped his arms around the man’s midsection and held on tight.

Ryan tugged on the reins.

“Up.” he said, still quite gently.

Michael’s grip on him grew tighter yet, as Edgar lumbered to find firm footing with his hooves again. The spurs caught Michael’s ankle slightly as Ryan bumped them into Edgar, and clicked his tongue, to get him moving.

*

Riding was...scary.

Michael had only ever rode in carts  _ behind _ the horses and that one time he tried to ride a pony, he was immediately bucked off. He hadn’t done this before. Edgar was so tall and fast, and the gravel roads didn’t make for the smoothest ride either. It was a wonder he stayed seated. Most of that wonder was likely the iron grip he had around his master’s broad chest, and the hold the master got on one of Michael’s forearms whenever they hit particularly rough terrain.

Michael could swear he felt his heart in his throat, pounding out an uncertain rhythm. How was he ever going to be a Ser, if just  _ riding _ was so frightening?

He could overcome the fear. He was certain of it. If he proved himself to Ser Ryan and was allowed to remain as his squire, he would learn. Ryan would teach him to ride Edgar, to ride a war horse. Surely, Ryan must have been afraid too, the first time he was in the saddle. Who wouldn’t be, Michael insisted to make himself feel a little better.

Thankfully, though, they stopped after a few hours, around midday, to allow the horses to catch their breath and drink from a small creek that ran alongside the Road. When they did, Ryan helped Michael off Edgar’s back too, which was a saving grace. Michael’s ass hurt like hell! And his stomach was covered in chafe marks, where the back end of Ryan’s saddle had dug into the boy. He kneeled down by the creek and hiked up his dirty tunic. He scooped up handfuls of water, pouring it over the reddened skin of his tummy. The cold water was soothing on the irritation, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The leather burns had started itching, but while he was on Edgar’s back, Michael had been far too afraid to let go of Ryan to scratch them.

The Ser appeared beside Michael, he too kneeling by the water; the horses were too occupied with quenching their thirst to bother realizing he had let go of their leads. Michael doubted either of them cared whether they were loose or not, anyway. Ryan dunked the water-skin in the creek to refill it, while Michael continued to drip water on himself. The boy flinched away, when the Ser suddenly grabbed his arm in a tight grip.

“What is that?” he asked sternly, eyes fixed on Michael’s reddened skin.

Michael let his tunic fall back to cover himself again. He jerked his arm out of Ryan’s arm.

“Nothing.” the boy said. “Just chafing from the saddle. I’m fine.”

Ryan hummed. He finished filling the water-skin, then got to his feet again. Michael rolled his eyes. Why was he so worried? It wasn’t a big issue. Michael had had plenty worse than that.

He let out a yelp as a hand grabbed the back of his tunic and dragged him to his feet.  


“What the hell?!” he shouted.

Ryan managed to drag him back on the Road before Michael could break free from his grip. But Ryan simply grabbed him again. The shoulder this time, likely hard enough to bruise.

“Stand still!” the Ser bit. “Or I’ll give ya a right beating!”

Michael pulled out of his hand again, but moved no further. He glared up at the Ser with the meanest look in his repertoire. He tried to fight when the Ser grabbed at the boy’s tunic. It only got him a rough slap over the head, which stunned him momentarily.

“I’m trying to help you, you dolt.” Ryan said harshly.

He grabbed at the tunic again and pulled it up until Michael’s stomach lay bare. Michael screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the worst. His heart almost broke out of his chest when he felt something cold and sticky being smeared over the irritated area. He dared to peek at what was happening.

Ser Ryan was lathing him in some sort of white-ish cream, which he scooped out of a small metal tin with his fingers.

“Wh-What’s that?” Michael stammered.

“Pig fat.” Ryan said and smirked when Michael grimaced. ”A trick I learned in the West, when I was in the desert cities. I’d get sand rashes on my feet, where the and slipped into my boots and chafed me as I walked. A friend from the area told me to use pig fat to soothe the itch, and protect the area from further irritation.”

He continued to smear the fat all over Michael’s stomach as he spoke.

It was...actually helping. The coolness of it numbered him slightly, which killed away much of the itch. It smelled a little bad, but so did Michael, so he barely noticed.

“Better?” Ryan asked, once he popped the lid back on the tin and let Michael cover himself again.

Michael nodded, but said nothing.

Ryan asked Edgar to bow once more. The horse followed out without hesitance. The Ser climbed back in the saddle. Michael scurried over to do the same. But when he came within reach, Ryan instead wrapped an arm around Michael’s lanky body and lifted him, seemingly with ease. He placed Michael in front of him on the saddle, which meant the boy was practically in his lap. Michael felt his face burn red; Ryan pulled him back, close to his chest, and wrapped around him to reach the reins. Michael’s face grew hotted yet, when Edgar stood to full height. The movement made the boy slide back slightly over the leather saddle until his bottom was  _ fully _ pressed to his Ser.  _ Seven Hells, old Gods and new Gods, he could fucking feel the line of the man’s soft cock against his ass. _

When he tried to shuffle forward, Ryan stopped him.

“Don’t move too much. Might spook Edgar.”

*

They didn’t stop again until dusk was upon them. Ryan, bleeding fucking heart as he apparently was, asked the boy several times during the ride if he was alright, if he needed more pig fat, if he needed to take a break. But the boy insisted they keep moving, so Ryan did.

People cast them some sideways glances and unwelcoming sneers, as they dismounted in their small village. Ryan gave Michael the reins, and chose a villager at random to approach.

“Pardon me, sir, is there an inn anywhere close?” Ryan asked.

He was certain to use his kindest smile and most charming voice. The surly man with the bushiest eyebrows Ryan had ever seen sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Up the road.” he said.

He seemed quite displeased to be forced into this interaction.

“Bethany’s tavern.” he continued, though. “She’s got a few beds. She’ll feed and water the horses too, if you pay extra.

“Thank you.” Ryan said.

He passed the man a pair of coppers, for his time and trouble. Michael followed with the horses, as Ryan lead the way in the direction his guide had indicated.

The village wasn’t much for the world. Ten, fifteen houses maybe. One or two of them had a small pen of pigs attached to it, and Ryan heard the distinct clucking of chickens from the small, ramshackle little shed that stood beside one of the other houses. The tavern didn’t look like much either, but the smell of roasted pork and grilled chicken wafted from inside. That was good enough for Ryan. The little stable built out from the side of the house was empty, which meant there was plenty of room for the Edgars. Michael stayed outside with them, while Ryan went inside to inquire about the beds.

The house was warm when he entered; a fire bustled in the center of the first room, which was filled with long tables and benches. As he had smelled from outside, various cuts of meat hung over the fire. Besides the woman who stood behind the bar, the place was empty. She looked up and put on her best smile when she heard him enter. Ryan mirrored her expression, with his own charming smile.

“Good evening, m’lady.” he said politely.

The woman giggled softly, sweeping her long blond hair behind her ear. “I’m no lady, sir, but thank you.” she said. “What can I do for you, sir? We have beds. Plenty of food, wine, and ale too. Three coppers for a meal. Six for a bed. Nine for both.”

“Sounds perfect. Two beds and two meals then, for my squire and I.” Ryan said, taking his coin purse from his belt to count out the cost. “And two horses in the stable. They’ll need some water and feed.”

The woman,  _ Bethany _ the man in the village had called her, nodded happily. “Certainly, sir. Tie them off. My husband will care for them when he returns from todays hunt. Should be quite soon.” she said. “That’ll be eighteen coppers for the two of you, and twenty more for the horses.”

Ryan gave her a silver, and eight coppers. Bethany seemed delighted to see the glint of a silver coin. She showed Ryan to the far back of the tavern hall, where a flimsy door lead to a small room packed full with slim cots. Ryan gave her another silver, to make sure he and his squire had the room to themselves. The woman beamed; she thanked him, and assured him profusely that if anyone were to come asking for a bed, she would turn them away.

He and the squire unburdened Edgar III; she was fed a few fine apples for her trouble. Michael looked ready to sleep for a fortnight when he laid down in his chosen cot, to try out the pillows. He sat up as fast as he could, though, when Ryan mentioned the meals with their names on them. The Ser supposed it would be the boy’s first hot meal in quite a while. Going by how he threw himself over the food with such gusto as Ryan had never before seen, the suspicion was indeed a fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters may be few and far between on this one, guys. Im kinda trying to wrap up my other AH fic, and after thats done, im gonne try and finish all the other fics ive got going on, so this one is gonna kinda be in the background. I mean, I guess Ill write on it when ive got the time and stuff, but settle in for a long wait?? i guess is what im saying?  
> anyway, hope you enjoy <3


	3. Chapter 3

Michael woke after dawn. He could see the morning sun peek through the cracks in the walls. He rubbed at his eyes and scratched his head, hoping he didn’t have fleas again, then sat up. The cots were small and a little uncomfortable to sleep on; still, they were far better than anything Michael had had in almost all his life.

Ryan lay a few cots away, closer to the door, seemingly still sleeping soundly. Michael could see that he had his sword unsheathed, half hidden under the covers, one hand gripping the handle. The knight was ready for battle, even as he slept.

A fire crackled somewhere beyond the sleeping quarters. The innkeep, Bethany, must already be up then, hopefully preparing breakfast. Michael’s stomach lurched with hunger, even after last night’s feast. It had been a feast in Michael’s eyes, at least. He’d never seen that much food in one place and known that he could have as much of it as he liked, without having to steal it.

He hurried out of his cot, still feeling warm and nice from the woolen blankets, and to the dining hall of the inn.

“Good morrow!” Bethany said with a happy smile, from where she stood stoking the fire. “You’re up early. As much as you ate last night, I half expected you to sleep through the day.”

The boy smiled and sniffed the air. He could smell the fresh bread baking and the stew cooking.

“I wouldn’t miss more of your cooking for the world.” he said as he took a seat at a table near the fire.

Bethany ladled some stew into a bowl for him, and picked a finished loaf of bread from the grate over the fire. She poured him some wine as well, as the boy more than happily set about eating his breakfast.

*

The saddles the Edgars again, soon after eating. Ryan has joined them at the table to eat rather quickly. Michael was certain the exquisite scents had woken the Ser. The horses had been fed a feast of their own too; fresh hay and a few buckets of oats, and fine, green apples. They both seemed happy and rested, and happier yet when Ryan came to greet them.

They bid Bethany farewell, then they were off again.

Michael clutched at Edgar’s mane, knees tight to the draft’s shoulders. Ryan’s arms at his sides did make him feel slightly better, even if they were only there to be able to reach the reins.

They rode as fast and hard as the day before. Ryan was anxious to get to the Hidden Tower. Michael didn’t know why. Yes, the tourneys there were held in high esteem, but what did it matter if Ryan missed it? There would be another, before too long. Michael did not understand why it was so important that Ryan attend  _ this _ tourney, and none other. But perhaps it was not his business to know. He was a mere squire, and only on a trial period no less! Curious as he might be, he knew better than to ask. All questions would earn him, was at best a good whap upside the head. At worst, Ser Ryan would leave him on the side of the road and not look back once.

“How much further?!” Michael asked instead.

He had to almost shout, to be heard over the thunder of hooves beating against the dirt.

“Not far!” Ryan answered.

He let go of the reins with one hand, to point somewhere ahead of them.

“See that bridge?! The river under it marks the edge of Wilson land! We’re close!”

_ Wilson? _ Yes, Michael knew that name. House Wilson inhabited the Hidden Tower, and presided over the land around the keep. He was certain he had once seen their banners fly, as Lord Wilson rode into Achievement City. It was...a blue background, with the head of a dog at its center, done in brown and white, two swords crossed behind it.

Before Michael knew it, they were stampeding across the bridge, the planks and stones trembling underneath all eight hooves. They had not gone far across the river, before Michael started seeing houses and farms crop up along the road. Little by little, he could also see the keep growing on the horizon. Its walls were high and covered in vines, making it almost blend into the green pastures around it. Even so, a tall tower rose beyond the green walls. Its yellowish bricks nearly looked to be golden, when touched by the sun. Michael could understand why it had come to be dubbed  _ the Hidden Tower. _

There were tents all around the front gates of the keep. Just to the west of the keep, the tourney grounds were made up. Michael saw the show pit, with the court stands on one side, where the Lord and people of similar high social standing would watch from, and the commoners stand around the rest. There were already people in the latter stands, claiming their spots early for safety.

He could feel eyes on them, as they approached the campgrounds. He saw a hundred different banners, it felt like, and knights carrying theirs with pride, squires and wandering salesmen scurrying around. Michael wondered briefly, what Ser Ryan’s banner looked like. He hadn’t see it yet.

Michael expected them to stop somewhere in the camps and make their own, but...they did not. Ryan did not even allow Edgar to slow up from the gallop. They rode through the camp, and right through the open gate. But...why were they going inside the keep? All the others, they were camped outside. What was the hedge knight thinking, daring the ride so boldly into a Lord’s keep uninvited?

The Edgars both  _ screamed _ as Ryan pulled on the reins, making the war horse skid to a sudden halt on the muddy ground. They had hardly come to a stop when Ryan dismounted. He grabbed Michael’s arm as well, dragging him down from Edgar’s back. Michael was lucky to keep his britches on. Guards were already running to meet them, swords drawn and some with spears instead. As he looked around, Michael saw the archers along the walls, arrows nocked and drawn. They were ready to kill the intruders at a moments notice.

“Who are you?!” a guard shouted. From the embellishments on his plate armour, Michael would presume he was a Captain. “State your name and your business, or we will remove you!”

“I am Ser Ryan the Bull!” the knight answered. “I have an audience with Lord James!”

_ An audience? _

So it wasn’t the tourney alone that caused Ryan’s eagerness to reach the keep.

The Captain gestured to his men on the ground, and up at the archers. Everyone lowered their weapons, swords sheathing and arrows finding their way back to their quivers. The Captain stepped forward to meet Ryan.

“My apologies, Ser. You took us by surprise.” he explained.

Ryan nodded. “No matter. Please, inform the Lord that I have arrived.”

“Yes, Ser.” the Captain said, sending one of the guards away with another gesture, to do as Ryan had asked. “One of my men will take you to the Lord. The stable boys will help your squire care for your horses.”

“My squire will be running some errands for me. Your stable boys can handle my horses on their own, I’m sure?”

The Captain nodded. “Certainly, Ser.”

The guards moved away then, leaving Michael and his Ser to themselves for the moment. Michael was certain his eyes were the size of saucers, staring up at the Ser when the man turned to him. He watched, still somewhat amazed, as Ryan reached into the coin purse on his belt. He grabbed Michael’s wrist, and dropped some coppers and silvers into his hand. What was he doing? He was  _ giving _ Michael coin?  _ Why? _

“Find a salesman out in the camps. Buy yourself some new clothes, a cloak, and boots.” Ser Ryan ordered. “You are squire to a Ser, visiting in the home of a Lord. You  _ cannot _ look like a rat from Fleabottom. If you’re back before my audience has ended, get someone to bring you to my quarters, and wait for me there. Understood?”

Michael’s wide eyes shifted to the coins he had been given.

“Understood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo whaddup this bitch shat out another chapter somehow but dont fucking expect more bc whooooo boy i am a disappointment to everyone and im gonna disappoint u too lol


	4. Chapter 4

Ryan rushed to stand, when the doors to the grand hall opened. He was a friend to the Lord, yes, but that was no excuse to be discourteuos. He watched the Lord walk in, followed by his company.

Lord James, of House Wilson, Lord of the Hidden Tower, Guardian to the Green Acres.

Ryan remembered playing in the Acres with James, when they were only children. James didn’t stop to greet him. Ryan honestly hadn’t expected him to.

“Heard you died in the Southlands.” James commented instead, as he stepped up to sit on his throne.

“I almost did.” Ryan said, only sitting again when the Lord had done so. “Several times. The Southlands are as dangerous as they say. If not more. It’s a constant fight for land. Every faction is more ruthless than the last.”

The Lord hummed. A servant appeared beside him, carrying a silver tray with a goblet on it. James took the goblet, and drank deep. The servant scurried away to stand, in waiting, near the fireplace.

“Leave us.” the Lord ordered. “All of you.”

His advisors looked shocked. None more than the blond man standing at James’ side. Ryan remembered him from their childhood days as well. Aleksandr, if he wasn’t mistaken.

But another of the men tugged on the blonds arm, getting him to move as well. Ryan and the Lord watched each other silently, as the others left them.

“Ryan the Bull.  _ Ryan Haywood...” _ James said, once they were alone. “It’s good to see you, brother. It’s been a long time. You left in such a hurry, then not a word in twelve years. Imagine my fucking surprise, when I receive a red raven from the Northlands, and a message tellin’ me you’re comin’ to the spring harvest tourney and you wanna talk to me.”

The Ser exhaled a heavy sigh, sinking in his seat before the Lord. “I know. I’m sorry, James. I had to leave. I...I couldn’t stay any longer. Not under the tyranny of that pretender king. The man wearing  _ my _ crown, claiming it as his own.” he explained.

James nodded, inhaling a deep breath. He leaned forward slightly and rubbed his hands over his face. He stood up. Ryan watched as he paced over to the tall windows behind his throne, pulling the string that held his hair tied down as he walked. Ryan had to smile when James’ fluffy curls all but exploded free. He remembered when they were children, when Ryan used to tease him for his bushy head of hair. James had always shoved him and punched him in the arm, and said that at least he didn’t have hair like a girl, like Ryan did. They were good memories.

The Lord gazed quietly out the window. Ryan got up, and joined him there. These windows looked out over the courtyard of the keep, and the Acres beyond it. The tents of the tourney camps speckled the green with all other colors, banners flying in the wind.

“I know why you’re here, Ryan. I know there’s only one reason you’d ever come back. And I want you to know that...I support your claim. All the old Houses do. The line of Haywood goes back as long as memory does. Righteous kings. Brave kings. I know that was taken from you, when the Revolt happened. When Burns usurped your father.”

James turned to look at Ryan.

_ “I want to see you on the Golden Throne, Ryan.” _

A weight was lifted from Ryan’s chest. He knew James was his friend, like a brother to him. But James was the Lord now; he had to think of his people more than himself. To know that James was still on his side after so long...it was an unimaginable relief.

*

Michael walked through the camps. He clutched his coins tightly in his hand. It was more coin than he had ever seen in his life, and Ser Ryan had just... _ given _ it to him.

Squeezed in between the tents of the contestants here and there, salesmen had put up their stands. Some still walked around, carrying their goods with them and shouting for people to come look at what they had to offer. Michael wasn’t sure where to start. All the clothes he had ever had were handed down from others in Fleabottom, and some cobbled together from worthless scraps of fabric. Even the tunic and the britches Michael was  _ currently _ wearing had been passed down from rat to rat for the Gods know how long.

He wanted to do justice to his Ser. He wanted to find good clothes, so that he looked like a squire a knight could be proud of.

He chose a stand at random. The woman that ran it, helped him select three tunic and three pairs of britches. Michael hoped Ryan wouldn’t mind that he bought so much. Michael hoped he would at least have the chance to explain himself, that Michael wanted to try to always have clean clothes, so that he never embarrassed his Ser in front of someone as important as a Lord. He could wear one set of his new clothes every day, and save the other two for the important occasions. Ser Ryan had freely taken Michael on as his squire; he didn’t want to disappoint his Ser.

He bought a cloak from the woman, as well. She helped him find one that wasn’t too long, or too heavy, and with a hood that covered his head well. Michael packed his new clothes into the cloak, bundling it up to carry over his shoulder, before moving on to find some boots. He found a nice pair that wasn’t too expensive; shiny brown leather, with a shield embroidered on the sides, in black. They were comfortable too, they fit him perfectly! He’d never had shoes. It was hot enough in Achievement City that he hadn’t had to worry about freezing his toes off. Shoes had been the last of his worries, when he had to think about finding food every day.

When he returned to the keep, the guards and all the servants moving around, eyed him suspiciously. As if they didn’t understand what a dirty little orphan was doing, daring to step foot in the keep. But Michael stood his ground. He stomped up to a random guard, putting on his meanest look. He probably didn’t look all that threatening anyway.

“I am Ser Ryan’s squire.” he told the guard confidently. “Take me to his quarters. He wanted me to wait there, until he finishes his audience with Lord Wilson.”

Thankfully, the guard seemed to remember Michael from earlier. He rolled his eyes at being ordered around by a squire, but lead the boy inside the keep. Michael was amazed as they moved through the halls. Everything was so clean and beautiful!

The room he was taken to, was incredible.

He could see the tourney pit from the window, and count the tents in the camp. The bed was huge, and softer than anything Michael had ever slept on. The sheets smelled like lilacs. The covers felt like he imagined satin would feel. The fabric was so soft, it felt like feathers on his skin when he touched them. He kicked off his new boots and laid down on the bed. He just wanted to see what it was like! Ryan would most likely have him sleep on the floor, so Michael had to take the opportunity when he could.

*

“I want to see you on the throne. I do, brother, I do. But...I have to consider the consequences. Killin’ Burns, takin’ back the crown...it’ll start a war.”

_ “A war we can win.” _ Ryan insisted. “You said the old Houses are with me. With their support, we could  _ crush _ the opposition.”

James ran his hand through his hair, fiddling with his curls like he always did when he was concerned. “Burns has a big family. Two strong sons to lead his army. To retaliate for their father’s death. And brothers and sisters, and allies through  _ their _ marriages. And his Queen...she’s a Jenkins. You know their armies are... _ vast. _ To say the least.”

“If I can get into the throne room with Burns, I can kill him. You and the other Houses could sneak your men into the city and the castle.  _ I _ kill Burns and take the throne.  _ You _ take the city for me.” Ryan schemed, hoping to the Gods that he could convince his brother. “We’ll have control of it all, before they even realize what’s happened.”

The Lord looked at him, a pensive depth in his eyes. Ryan could see his mind going through it, working over the idea, the loose grasp at a plan.

“The others...they believe in your House. They believe a Haywood should have the throne. They believe in your  _ name. _ But  _ you? _ Not so sure they believe in  _ you.” _

He moved away from the windows again and Ryan followed.

“Win the one-on-one duels. In the tourney.” the Lord continued, taking his seat again and drinking from his goblet. “Let them see your strength. Once they’ve seen it for themselves...maybe I can convince them.”

Ryan sank to a knee beside James, resting his hand on his brothers arm. “Thank you.” he said. “Once I’m on the throne...you won’t be forgotten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> producing chapters? this bitch???? impossible


	5. Chapter 5

“A red field, with a golden chalice and a black cat’s head.”

“House Kovic. Adam is the eldest son. Here to compete in the joust.”

“A black field, with a green pine tree and a brown axe.”

“House Suptic. Steven is the eldest son. Here with his friends, as guests of Lord James, to spectate the games.”

The boy was a quick study, Ryan had to admit.

Ryan had borrowed a heraldry book from James’ Maester, and gone through the greater houses with his squire the night before. Michael had peered at the painted banners on the pages with keen eyes. It would take more repetition for them all to stick in the boy’s mind, but it was a good start.

“What are you competing in today, Ser?” Michael asked, as he was preparing Ryan’s armour.

“The duels. And I intend to win.” he replied, scrubbing his feet a little extra. “Pour in some more water.”

“Yes, Ser.”

The boy hurried to the fireplace. He wrapped the handle of the pot in rags before taking it from the simmering fire. The water wouldn’t be boiling, not from such a small fire, but it would perfectly hot for a good bath. Michael carefully tipped it into the tub, slowly adding water. Ryan sank in the tub as he relished the feel of the warm water. He hadn’t had a good bath in months. On the road, he had had to settle for cold rivers and lakes. Warm water was a blessing.

“You should bathe as well, once I’m finished.” he told his squire as the boy set the pot back on the fire. “You smell.”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Black and red fields, with a yellow flame and a blue helmet.”

“House Burns. That’s the King’s House.” Michael said, sitting down on the floor beside the tub. “He stole the throne in the Revolt. In Fleabottom, people said he was a coward, who poisoned the previous king and had his children slaughtered and thrown in the moat.”

Ryan closed his eyes.

It was true.

Burns had poisoned Ryan’s father, and his mother. He had had his men kill Ryan’s siblings. Ryan himself had been lucky to escape. He had been in the gardens playing games with the servant children, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to talk to them other than to give them orders. They had heard screaming from inside the castle. Ryan had tried to go inside, to see what was happening, to see if his siblings were alright.

But Lord Wilson, James’ father, had stopped him. He had grabbed Ryan and dragged him away, kicking and screaming, to the stables. He took his horse and hid Ryan under his cloak, and galloped out of the city and didn’t stop for even a moment until Achievement City was only dot on the horizon. In the commotion of it all, Burns’ men assumed they had killed all the children. They didn’t think to look for Ryan.

Lord Wilson took Ryan to the Hidden Tower. He dyed Ryan’s hair black, like his own, and told everyone Ryan was one of his bastards. Ryan was eight at the time. James, who was only a year older, was more than delighted to finally have a brother to play with.

“Ser Ryan...why are you crying?”

The knight woke from his thoughts. He sank deeper into the tub, fully submersing himself. Gods, what a mess he was...crying in front of his squire.

*

Ryan’s sword was smaller than Michael had expected.

It had looked huge when it sat on the knight’s hip, but as Michael carried the weapon in its sheath, it seemed smaller. It was light too. Michael had handled a sword or two, when he worked at the forge, so he knew what a sword weighed. Ryan’s was much lighter.

“What kind of sword is this?” he asked as they moved through the camp, towards the show pit. “I’ve never seen one like it!”

Ryan hummed. “The tribes in the East use them. They’re nomads. They move on foot. They can’t afford to waste their strength on carrying heavy swords.” he explained. “They made their weapons smaller and lighter, so they could be more easily carried along.”

It was from the Eastlands? Ser Ryan really must have travelled all around the world. Michael was... He was jealous, to be quite honest. He wished he could see the world too. He wondered what kind of amazing things were out there, the things Michael hadn’t even heard _stories_ of! Maybe once he became a Ser, _if_ he became one, he could travel the world too. He could go to all the continents, cross every ocean. See the deserts in the Southlands for himself, the ones that Ryan had mentioned, and see the nomads in the East as well!

He walked into Ser Ryan, who had stopped quite abruptly, and stumbled back slightly. He clung to the sheath and the belt for dear life, as well as the helmet he carried in a sack under his arm; Gods know he didn’t want to drop either in the mud. Michael peered around his Ser, to see what had caused the sudden halt.

They were at the show pit already?

They, and some other knights and their squires, stood just outside the fences of the pit. All the other knights had fine armour, finer than Ryan’s. They had plate and chain mail, and polished helmets. The squires carried big, heavy shields for their masters, banners painted on the wood in bright colours. Ryan didn’t have a shield, and his armour was mostly leather it seemed. Michael wasn’t sure what to call his kind of armour.

The chest plate was made of dark brown leather, but it had long, black metal strips strapped to it. It was like plate armour, but seemingly designed to be more flexible. The leather base likely gave for much greater mobility than the rigid plate, and it was much lighter than chain mail, Michael knew that from having handled it earlier. The rest of his armour was just the same. The bracers were slightly different; the metal strips there were wider and thicker, layered neatly. If Michael could guess, it was so that he could block a sword with just his forearm, and avoid needing a shield. He supposed he would just simply see, when Ser Ryan entered the pit.

They listened and waited, as the crier announced the Lord. When the man stepped up to the finest chair on the stands, Michael was surprised. The Lord was younger than he had expected. Quite handsome too, if Michael had to say.

The crier carried on to then announce the first duel.

“Ser Ryan the Bull, versus Lord Cole of House Gallian!”

*

Cole Gallian?

A young little lordling. Second or third son, Ryan couldn’t quite recall. He was a tall and lanky thing, of a small House. _He shouldn’t be much of a challenge,_ Ryan pondered to himself.

Michael passed him his sword. Ryan fastened the belt around his waist. Then the helmet. He withdrew it from the sack Michael had carried it in, and put it on like it was his crown. Blackened steel, glistening in the sun. Horns, like those of a bull, protruded from its smooth, polished surface. A wide slit in the metal allowed him to see unobstructed. A bull’s muzzle made the helmet’s face, the steel carefully and painstakingly sculpted.

His squire stared at him in awe.

The gate to the pit opened.

He and the Gallian boy stepped inside.

*

The fighters bowed to the presiding Lord.

They stepped back, and away from each other, until they stood on either side of the pit.

Michael watched closely. Not only to etch the motions of a tourney into his mind, but also because Ryan’s presence made it impossibly to look away. The way he carried himself, the way he moved, the way he held his head to angle his horns, the way he made himself look like a raging bull readying to charge... It was the most princely thing Michael had ever seen, and he’d seen _actual princes_ parade past in Achievement City.

The fighters drew their swords. Gallian raised his shield. Ryan raised his left arm as though it were his shield, the metal adorning his bracer shining in the sun. As it was struck by the sun, Michael could swear the blade of Ryan’s sword was blue.

A trumpet screamed.

Gallian didn’t waste a moment. He let out a ravenous war cry, running towards his opponent. Ryan paced himself. He jogged to meet Gallian, but didn’t waste energy on running when Gallian was so happily coming to him. The lordling raised his sword as they came within range of each other. He raised it above his head, and swung downwards at Ryan. Sparks flew; the sword clanged against the bracer. Fast as lightning, Ryan swung his own sword. Even Michael could Gallian's pained grunt, when the sword struck his side. Swinging from so high, focused only on his blade, he had forgotten to keep his shield close.

He collapsed, barely more than pile of shiny armour in the mud, sword falling from his hand. The boy dragged his helmet off his head. He was visibly gasping for air. Michael bit his lip. Ryan must have injured his ribs.

Ryan stood over Gallian. He kicked the lordling's sword away out of reach. He levelled his own sword to the boy's head.

 _"Yield!"_ Gallian shouted through dry coughs, clutching at the side where he had been hit. "Yield! I yield!"

Ryan turned and walked towards the gates of the pit, sliding his sword back into its sheath.

"Ser Ryan the Bull wins through yield!" the crier announced.

Lord Wilson and the fine folk applauded politely. The commoners cheered and Michael did, too. He couldnt believe it! Ser Ryan ended the duel in _one strike!_ He was in awe as Ryan exited the pit.

The Ser removed his helmet, shoving it into Michael's waiting hands. Michael followed closely while Ryan moved away from the pit. He looked back for only a moment, to see servants carrying Gallian out on a stretcher, a Maester at his side. Ryan didn't spare him a glance.

They didn't stop until they reached the game master's pavillion, which lay only a short distance away from the pit itself. Ryan stepped into the big tent and Michael remained at his side.

"Ser Ryan," the game master said, as he placed a small purse of coin on his desk. "-your winnings. Confident man to bet for yourself."

"Not confident." the Ser said. "Merely aware of my abilities, and the abilities of my opponents. Who will I fight next?"

The game master shuffled some parchments around. "Ser Tyler, of House Coe. Defeat him and you advance to the next round. Pairs will be drawn after all qualifying duels are completed."

"Keep the coin." Ryan ordered. "Place a bet on me as victor against Coe."

The master hummed. He picked up his quill and dipped it in his inkwell. They watched as he made a note of the bet in his papers.

"Good fortune to you, Ser Ryan." he said, taking back the purse.

"No such thing." the Ser dismissed.

They left the pavillion and returned to the pit to spectate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yknow what i said abt producing chapters?  
> Yeah, that was obviously a big fat lie lol


End file.
